I'll Hold Your Hand
by intotheruins
Summary: Four times Castiel held Dean's hand, and one time Dean held Castiel's. Dean/Castiel, one shot.


_This is unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine. I wrote this ridiculous thing to celebrate finishing my dcbb rough draft on time._

 _...*..._

It begins with a plane.

Well, it really begins with wide, frantic eyes, and Dean saying "No way," in a small, childlike voice.

"It's just one hunt, Dean, I swear!" Sam's hands are held up in the white flag, his tone pitched low and soothing. "Look, the guy who was going to handle it is down with a broken leg. Chris Summers, remember him? Dad met him on that wendigo hunt when I was like twelve?"

"Thirteen," Dean says easily, because he remembers the good hunts and that was _spectacular._ John even let him have a beer after that one, easily acting as though Dean hadn't been stealing them for two or three years leading up to that point.

"It's some kind of sea monster," Sam coaxes brightly.

Dean perks up. Sea monsters are awesome. They never get sea monsters.

"I don't understand what the problem is," Castiel says. He's leaning back against the kitchenette counter, arms crossed, head titled curiously to the side.

"Dean's afraid of planes," Sam says before Dean can tape his traitorous little brother's mouth shut.

"Shut up, I'm not..." Dean flaps his hands like it will somehow erase the whole mess, and Sam's starting to snicker now and that just so isn't helping. With a heavy sigh, because it's not like Cas can't read his mind anyway, Dean turns towards him and says reluctantly, "I hate flying, okay? It sucks. If I had to choose between flying and fighting off a rabid werewolf, I'd choose the werewolf."

Castiel frowns. It makes a tiny wrinkle appear in the space between his brows, and Dean tries really, really hard not to think of it as cute. Because it's not. _Cute_. Damn it.

"I see." Castiel's voice is thick with confusion. He tips his head a little further, and Dean sighs and resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Can you... conquer this fear long enough to reach Hawaii?"

"Sea monster," Sam repeats enthusiastically. "I'll let you get shit faced drunk on the beach and chase pretty girls in bikinis after the hunt!"

Oh, that does sound nice. Dean bites his lip, chewing nervously, and then lets out a quiet groan and throws his hands up in submission. "Fine! But when I panic, I'm blaming it on you."

"I'll hold your hand," Castiel deadpans.

Sam laughs so hard he actually collapses on the bed. Dean scowls for what feels like a week.

Except... it's two days later and they're on the plane, Sam in front of him and Castiel beside him, and Dean's in trouble. He's breathing hard, gripping his own knees until his knuckles turn white and he can feel bruises forming beneath his skin. They're maybe half way through their flight, and he's not sure he's going to make it. He can feel the all-consuming, mind-numbing grip of a panic attack descending on him, making his heart race and his vision blur. He thinks some of the passengers might be looking at him in concern, but he can't focus enough to be certain.

"Cas..." He hisses, uncertain what he's even asking for, and then there's a hand wedging insistently under his own. Fingers tangle thoroughly in his, their palms press together and it's... it helps. It's warm and tight and the anchor he needs to get through this. More than that, it's _Cas_ , the damn guardian angel he never asked for and never wants to lose, Cas who somehow became family.

He's still tense and afraid, but the panic fades, and his heart rate slows. He smiles weakly at Castiel and the angel smiles back.

...*...

The second time, Dean is hurt. The latest ghost on a hunt in Indiana threw him into an old pinto and popped his shoulder out of its socket. He's downing straight whiskey before Sam fixes it, and Castiel is hovering right in front of Dean, in that quietly concerned way of his. Probably blaming himself for his inability to heal. Dean tosses him a tight grin through the pain, but Castiel just frowns and takes a few steps closer.

"Ready?" Sam asks. He carefully places his hands and Dean nods, tries to relax. "On three."

Cas reaches out and takes Dean's hand. Just like that, smooth as you please, sliding their palms together and gripping tight. This time he curls his fingers over the side of Dean's hand, using the angle to brush his thumb over tendons and knuckles.

"One," Sam says.

"I'm a big boy, Cas, I can handle it," Dean quips, but he doesn't pull his hand away. It's warm, and soft, and he thinks maybe it's a little for Cas's benefit, too.

"Two," Sam says, and slams the shoulder back in. Dean yells through clenched teeth and grips Castiel's hand so hard a human's bones might have cracked. The angel grimaces anyway, his waning grace making him all but human sometimes.

"Three, asshole," Dean gripes. Sam soothes an apologetic hand down Dean's spine and leans over to grab the painkillers.

Castiel reaches up with his free hand and passes it gently over Dean's abused shoulder, so lightly Dean almost can't feel it. It's not much, but the pain fades just enough to take the edge off.

"I'm sorry," Castiel murmurs. Dean shakes his head.

"Don't be sorry for doing what you can," he says, and squeezes Castiel's hand before letting go to take the painkillers being handed to him.

...*...

The third time, they're in a bar that almost counts as nice – it's clean, at least as far as Dean can tell – in a little town in Wyoming. Dean has at least four beers in him, probably more, and Castiel is downing shots with an ease that's actually just a little bit terrifying. Thanks to his dwindling grace, the angel is tipsy going on fully drunk, and apparently a tipsy Cas without the threat of an apocalypse is an extremely affectionate Cas. He's smiling at _everyone,_ and every so often he'll slide half way off his stool and just lean his back against Dean's side, propping himself up in a precarious manner that only just keeps him from oozing onto the floor. People at the bar and passing by seem torn over whether to be concerned or amused. One chick with a sweet rack and _amazing_ legs comes by at one point for drinks. Castiel smiles dazedly at her from where he's leaning on Dean, and gives her a tiny, jerky little wave.

"Hello," he murmurs happily. Dean rolls his eyes around a chuckle and takes a swig of his... sixth?... beer.

"Hi!" she says back. She laughs when Cas's smile widens and he leans more heavily against Dean, who has to lock his legs around the stool to keep from toppling over. Her brown eyes flick to Dean's, and she says with genuine warmth, "Your boyfriend is adorable."

She's gone before Dean can stammer out the protest he doesn't actually seem to be forming. Sure, he's maybe thought Cas was sorta nice looking before, but they were just thoughts!

"Budge up, dude, you're heavy," he mutters, more uncomfortable with his lack of discomfort than with the woman's assumption.

"My apologies." Castiel heaves himself upright and waves at the bartender to pour him another shot.

By the time they leave the bar, Sam and Dean are on either side of Castiel, holding the angel up as they stagger the two blocks back to the motel. Sam isn't really drunk, but he's laughing so hard at Castiel's stumbling impersonation of a rag-doll that he might as well be.

They dump Castiel on the bed closest to the door. He bounces as he hits the mattress, coat splaying out and hanging over the side, feet dangling off the end. Sam manages to tug off the angel's shoes before he collapses into the other bed and promptly passes out.

"Move." Dean shoves at Castiel's shoulder until the angel groans and wriggles gracelessly to the side. Dean grips the mattress long enough to kick off his boots before he falls onto the bed beside the angel.

Castiel rolls onto his side so they're face to face. "Dean. Will I be sick in the morning?"

Dean huffs a laugh through his nose. "Oh yeah. We're both going to regret this."

"Oh." Castiel sighs. "All right."

Dean laughs again and falls asleep.

The morning finds him on his knees, heaving into a toilet that might have been white at one point. Castiel is sitting on the floor beside him, his back against the sink cabinet. He's a little pale and unsteady, but nowhere near as sick as Dean. The angel is twisted at an odd angle so that he can grip one of Dean's hands tightly in his while the other rubs Dean's back. Even when Dean finally settles, heaves himself over Castiel's legs to collapse onto the floor beside him, their hands remain linked together.

It's strange to have the epiphany that he _really_ likes holding Castiel's hand on a dirty bathroom floor. It's probably weirder leaning on your best friend – who's also kind of your angel – wallowing in the misery of an epic hangover, but whatever. Dean's life has never been normal.

...*...

The fourth time, there's nothing wrong. They finished a simple, pain-free salt and burn, and they're taking a walk. It's a nice little town, with a neat little shopping center that's buzzing with life in the early evening hours. It's rare that they get any downtime to just relax and wander wherever on the map they've landed, and Dean is having fun dragging Cas around from shop to shop, showing him all the random things humans make and love. He's discovered Castiel adores chocolate, particularly dark, and that he moans loudly and without shame when he takes the first bite. The angel is fascinated by blown glass and ceramics and just about anything hand-made, and when Sam insists they stop in a cutesy little coffee shop and get hot chocolate... well, it's worth it for the whipped cream that ends up all over Castiel's nose and upper lip.

They're heading back to the motel, Sam a little ahead of them, when Castiel just reaches out and takes Dean's hand. And Dean... Dean doesn't stop him. They're in the middle of a small crowd, and Dean just doesn't care. It feels good, it feels _right,_ fuck how cheesy it sounds. He tangles their fingers together and doesn't look, doesn't say anything. They don't need the words. Their best – and, admittedly, their worst – communication has always been in silence.

When he does look, it's as Castiel's hand is slipping away while Sam unlocks the door. Their eyes meet, and Dean feels something zing down his spine, something new that maybe isn't really so new. He should be terrified of it, but he isn't, and he doesn't want to be.

"You guys are so _cute!_ " Sam gushes.

Dean just flips him off and strides into the motel. "Shut up, bitch!"

"Jerk!"

"What does that make me?"

The brothers pause. They glance at each other and, as one, turn to the angel and say, " _Assbutt."_

The look of complete and utter pissiness on Castiel's face is priceless, and Dean thinks that's probably the only good memory – besides Sammy managing to throw Lucifer into the pit _without_ throwing himself in, of course – he has of the almost-apocalypse.

...*...

The fifth time, Dean plans it.

He waits until Sam goes out to hit the library, hoping to have better luck with the books on a string of disappearances taking place in the woods outside a tiny town in Montana. He'd been searching the internet for hours and come up with precisely squat. Castiel is sitting at the foot of Dean's bed, flipping methodically through channels. He hasn't paused on anything yet, and Dean's not actually sure he's going to. Sometimes, he'll just keep changing them until Dean takes the remote and settles on something.

The hunter sits beside Cas, close enough that their knees are resting against each other. He tips one foot so it's touching, too, and wonders why this doesn't scare him. Maybe it's because Cas can be permanent, like Sam. Maybe it's just because he's Cas. Maybe it doesn't even matter, and he should just be grateful that he's so calm. He goes with the last one, and lets his utter lack of nervousness allow him to reach out and slide his hand under Castiel's.

For three tense seconds, nothing happens. Then Castiel curls his fingers through Dean's, and keeps changing channels.

They sit like that for maybe ten minutes. Dean finally takes the remote with his free hand and stops on a rerun of The X-Files, which is more Sammy's thing than his, but he doesn't hate it. They watch Mulder and Scully track down some oily, alien goo for half an hour without moving. Castiel's hand is warm and smooth in his, never sweats, which is awesome.

"Dean?"

The hunter's eyes flick away from the screen. Castiel's head is tilted, curious and something else, something more that Dean can't quite pin down. It makes his breath catch in his throat and his heart rate quicken and god, he can't remember the last time he felt like this. Years. Too many years.

He doesn't let himself think about it. He just lifts Castiel's hand and twists so he can press his lips to the back of it, never breaking eye contact with Cas. The angel sucks in a sharp breath, startled but pleased, and Dean can read his expression now. Cas is excited.

Slowly, Dean unlaces their fingers. Castiel looks startled and briefly dismayed, until Dean takes him by the wrist instead and draws his hand closer. It's ridiculous how easy it is to suck the angel's middle finger into his mouth, to swirl his tongue around the pad and watch Castiel's pupils blow wide with the first strike of lust. It's been a few years since Dean was last with a man, and it was never like this. Men were quick, hard fucks in back alleys and bar bathrooms when he needed to blow off a little steam, a little extra violence. He can't imagine that with Cas... not yet, anyway, and certainly not always.

This is a thick, intimate heat, the kind of simmering slow burn Dean doesn't usually have time for. It's addictive, almost as addictive as the stunned, half-lidded expression of lust on Castiel's face.

Dean lets Cas's finger slide from his mouth only to take two, because the angel _really_ seems to like it. He's starting to pant, sharp little breaths quivering past parted lips that Dean thinks really, really need to be kissed. He tugs Castiel's hand away, only just barely ignoring the soft whimper the angel releases. He reaches out with his free hand, curls it around the back of Castiel's neck, tugging gently...

There's a quiet rattle and then the door swings open. "Hey, I might ha-" Sam cuts himself off when he sees the two, frozen in place and staring at him with twin expressions of surprise. "Have to go right back out and do some more research," Sam finishes, grinning widely. "Lots of research. I'll be gone for hours. Might even pull an all-nighter."

He doesn't give either of them the chance to say anything. He just tosses them an exaggerated wink and ducks right back out the door.

Castiel is the first to laugh, a soft huff that makes Dean grin widely. The angel wiggles the fingers still cupped in Dean's hand, and Dean laughs and kisses his angel, open-mouthed and messy.

What follows is nothing short of a disaster. Castiel manages to tangle up his arms when he tries to take off his coats, and decides the solution is to shred the cheap fabric. Dean sucks two of Castiel's fingers too far into his mouth and chokes, gets spit and tears and laughter all over the place. When they fall back onto the bed, Castiel's chin jabs Dean right in the eye, and Dean knees Cas in the balls. Dean groans; the angel gasps and huffs, pained, against Dean's chest.

And they never stop laughing.

Not through bruises, or pants caught around their knees, or kisses traded at awkward angles while they roll their just-bared hips together. Castiel even laughs through his orgasm, breathless, chuckling groans, and it's the only time Dean does stop because he can't believe how beautiful his angel is.

They're a sticky mess afterward – come and sweat on the sheets, their skin, practically gluing them together. Dean's still wearing his t-shirt and one boot he hadn't managed to kick off, his jeans and underwear hanging from his left ankle. Castiel is down to just his dress shirt, caught and bunched under his right arm, and one sock that's barely clinging to his toes. He flicks his foot lazily as Dean watches, and the sock slides off and down onto the floor.

Dean laughs again, and kisses the angel's temple. Castiel hums, low and pleased, but doesn't open his eyes.

"We're gross," Dean mumbles.

"Mm." Castiel tips his head forward just enough to nuzzle Dean's throat, almost colliding with Dean's chin instead. The hunter chuckles and wonders if they'll always be this accident-prone. "That was fun."

Dean goes to nod and thunks Castiel on the head. Castiel grunts, surprised, and then laughs helplessly, burying his face in Dean's throat while Dean just hugs him tight around the waist and shoves his face into Castiel's hair, trying to kiss the place his chin struck.

"Sorry," Dean chuckles. Castiel rolls onto his back and just grins at Dean, wide and happy and wow, Dean thinks he'll do just about anything to see that expression on Castiel's face again. Often.

"Let's take a shower," Castiel suggests. He sits up and shakes off his shirt, then slides off the end of the bed and to his feet. For a moment his back is to Dean, and the hunter takes advantage of the view to ogle Castiel's ass. It's round and firm, and Dean lets himself think of all the things he's going to do to it later to make Castiel squirm.

Then Castiel turns, tugs off Dean's boot, his pants and boxers, and holds out his hand.

Dean takes it without hesitation.

END


End file.
